


I'll write your name

by sebfish



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Los Angeles Kings, M/M, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-18
Updated: 2018-04-18
Packaged: 2019-04-19 12:45:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14237586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sebfish/pseuds/sebfish
Summary: The universe may have decided that he and Mike aren’t soul mates any more, but Jeff Carter is used to the universe making questionable choices.





	I'll write your name

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thedeadparrot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedeadparrot/gifts).
  * Inspired by [then we do it again](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12310086) by [thedeadparrot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedeadparrot/pseuds/thedeadparrot). 



> The title is an egregious reference to Blank Space by Taylor Swift because that was honestly the only thing I could think of when I was writing this.
> 
> Unbetaed so all mistakes are mine.
> 
> The original story was fantastic and I hope I did it justice, it was my first time writing these two and I honestly had a lot more fun than I ever expected to. 
> 
> This is a work of fiction based on the people named in the story and no harm is meant.

It starts because Quickie gets the idea that Jeff’s been hanging out by himself in LA and generally being a sad sack and decides that it’s his duty as his brother in arms to make sure he gets some social contact that isn’t just his mom a few times a week.

He is, regrettably, mostly right, because Jeff’s been moping around in LA because the alternative is going home and, well.

Home means seeing all his family and friends and having to listen to all their well-intentioned concern about the fact that he doesn’t have a soul mate any more, which yeah, it fucking sucks. It’d be nice, maybe, to go home and hang out with his sister and let his mom baby him, but it’s not home as much as it used to be when he was younger.

It’s not what going home has meant for the past few years, until now. Home means going to New Jersey to the house that was supposed to be theirs forever, and, well.

So yeah, he’s been a sad fucking sack because he woke up one day with a blank space on his ankle where there used to be a name he knew better than his own, and it fucking sucks. There’s all kinds of advice on the internet for what to do when your soul mate’s name disappears, but it’s all people who never met them or parents trying to figure out what to tell their kids.

There’s no advice for what to do when your soul mate was your best friend and you were planning on spending the rest of your life with him until everything got fucked up and suddenly you weren’t playing together anymore.  There’s no advice for what to do when your soul mate won’t talk to you anymore and then you wake up one day with your mark gone like it had never existed.  

(He’ll never admit how terrified he was when he realized, and how relieved he was when Mike finally texted to ask if his mark was missing, too. He’ll take a Mike who’s alive and not his soul mate over a Mike who isn’t.)

So Quickie takes it upon himself to invite a few guys that have been hanging around for the summer and invite them over to a cookout, because LA in the summer may be too fucking hot for anything but Quickie’s a goalie and Jeff knows better by know than to think he’ll let that stop him.

Sometimes you have to try anyway.

 

 

 

It was a Thursday when he realized his mark was missing, and it’s such a small thing but he still can’t help but think that maybe the universe is trying to tell him something. He got traded to Columbus on a Thursday too, and maybe it’s just shitty luck or maybe it’s something more.

He got traded to LA on a Thursday too, and maybe it’s just his luck.

 

 

 

The cookout is far better than Jeff would’ve guessed, meaning that he gets entirely shitfaced and ends up draped across a couch with his head in someone’s lap.

He thinks he might’ve told Brownie that he loved him, but he’s not entirely sure.

“I love you,” he says, just to be certain, and feels whoever’s lap he’s on shake as he laughs.

Okay, that’s definitely Brownie. There’s a murmur of conversation above him that he can’t quite make out, and then someone tugs on his shoulder. It’s Quickie, of course, because he’s always fucking responsible.

“Hey bud,” he says, “you wanna crash here tonight?”

“Ugh,” Jeff says, and manages to ooze his way slightly more upright. Now that he’s paying attention, the house is a lot quieter than it was. “Gotta let the dogs out.”

“I can stop by to let them out,” Brownie says over him, which unfair, Jeff’s still right here.

“Okay,” Quickie says. He holds out his hand. “Keys?”

It takes Jeff a few tries but he manages to wrangle them out of his pocket and drops them in Quickie’s hand, who immediately passes them over to Brownie.

“I’ll take him home tomorrow,” Quickie says, which again, unfair, since Jeff is right here.

He must doze off again though because the next he knows Quickie is shaking him awake and pulling him upright.

“C’mon bud, let’s get you to bed.”

Jeff dutifully brushes his teeth with the toothbrush he’s handed and downs an entire water bottle before he collapses on the bed. He only remembers belatedly that he’s still wearing his jeans and is mostly successful at pulling them off. He fishes his phone out of his pocket and manages to set it on the side table next to the bed.

Quickie supervises him until he’s in bed, mostly settled, and god, Jeff doesn’t know what he did to deserve friends like this.

Quickie smiles at him like he knows. “Night, bud,” he says, and switches off the light.

 

 

 

There’s a text waiting for him when he wakes up, feeling gross and hungover but remarkably not as bad as he would’ve expected. He downs the Tylenol and the bottle of water that someone, probably Quickie, had thoughtfully left before thumbing it open.

It’s a picture of a lake in the early morning, misty, all lit up gold with early morning light.

He _knows_ that lake, and well, fuck. There’s a message, too, in response to something in his call log that he doesn’t even remember.

_I miss you too._

 

 

 

Mike starts texting him after that, mostly pictures of the lake with no comment. He’ll take anything at this point, even if this is all he gets of Mike for the rest of their lives.

_Nice view,_ he texts back, and a few meaningless emojis. It’s the same pointless shit he’d comment on Instagram but he’s stupidly grateful for it, because it means that Mike is talking to him.

He’s on the couch with Bo and Miley curled up next to him, something stupid on TV, and it’s not the worst life he could be living but he always figured he’d have Mike next to him too.

They were soul mates and best friends for years and all it took was six months for everything to get fucked up. All it took was Mike telling him _no, don’t come,_ and then fewer and fewer phone calls and texts, and then he woke up one morning with his soul mark missing. He’s not going to take anything for granted ever again.  

_Come visit_ , he texts one day after a workout, feeling gross but weirdly happy because Mike has been asking how his summer in LA was going, and it’s a fucking stupid impulse but all of his worst impulses have always revolved around Mike anyway, so it’s not like it’s anything new.

_Okay,_ he gets back, and well, that’s new.

 

 

 

Mike flies in on the same day Jeff is busy doing a media thing, and it shouldn’t be a big deal but Jeff feels restless all day.

It’s a fucking simple commercial like he’s done before, skate around and show off, but something about the lighting is making the director pissy and he makes them stop and reshoot it another five times before he’s finally happy.

The only bright spot is stopping between takes to text Mike when his flight gets in, and even if they’re still so fucking careful around each other, always polite texts and never stupid shit like they used to, it’s still better than he could’ve hoped.

Mike’s already there when he gets home, puttering around in the kitchen and staring out the window, and god, he looks unfairly good for someone who’s just had all his shit fucked up.

“Hey,” Jeff says, for lack of anything better, standing awkwardly in the doorway and not entirely sure where to put his hands.  

“Hey,” Mike responds, leaning back against the counter, and it’s not really awkward but it kind of is, and Jeff hates it.

“God,” he says and crosses the room in a few steps, and then he’s pulling Mike into a hug. “Just, fucking come here, okay?”

Mike is stiff for a moment and Jeff wonders if he miscalculated, but then Mike relaxes into the hug and presses his face into Jeff’s shoulder. “Fuck you,” he says, kind of muffled. Jeff can’t tell but he thinks he might be crying, a little.

“Hey,” he says again, softer, and holds on. “You want anything to eat?”

“Sure,” Mike says, and Jeff pretends he doesn’t notice that he’s wiping his eyes surreptitiously as they pull apart.

 

 

 

The first time he met Mike Richards, he thought _that’s the guy I’m going to spend the rest of my life with_. It was so easy then, with the certainty of soul mates and everything that meant, that the two of them had proof from god or the universe or whatever the fuck else that they were meant to be.

He loves Mike, yeah, like a brother and a best friend and everything else, but maybe that wasn’t quite enough to keep them together. He’s been missing him like he’d miss the ice or a limb; like it’s something he could learn to live without but he doesn’t want to.

Like Mike’s his own blood and bone and heart, like he’d scoop him up and tuck him inside his own chest, safe. He thought that’s what being soul mates meant, but maybe it’s never been what he thought it was.

 

 

 

After the first day Mike is a little more quiet, a little more stand-offish, a little like he’d pick a fight with Jeff if he thought he could. Jeff tries not to let it bother him, but it’s easy to let Mike get under his skin. They’ve been good together, but that’s not everything and it’s easy to let Mike’s shit get to him.

Mike disappears sometimes, comes back smelling like salt and sweat and the ocean. Jeff doesn’t ask him where he goes, but he seems a little calmer after so he’ll give him his space.

It’s almost like living with him again, the way he leaves his shit everywhere and can’t remember to close cupboard doors ever, and Mike’s barely talking to him but he still feels easier than he has in weeks.

Maybe Jeff thought he loved him because they were soul mates and it was easy, but he’s not sure what to do with this.

 

 

 

They’re hanging out after dinner, just two guys hanging out and drinking a few beers and watching one of the fishing shows that Mike likes and Jeff swears he doesn’t watch and then TiVo’s religiously. The dogs are curled up on the other side of the couch, because they don’t care about stupid human bullshit.

He doesn’t know if Mike realizes it, but he keeps tracing his fingers across his forearm, a simple pattern tracing out somewhere that doesn’t exist anymore.

He’s somewhere between warm and lightly buzzed, and maybe that’s what gives him the courage to ask.

“Would you want to try again, if we could?”

Mike’s hand stills. “Try what?”

“Like, you know how some people date even if they’re not soul mates, or if they’re blanks, or whatever.”

Mike’s face is unreadable, and Jeff looks away. It’s not that he’s always been able to read Mike like an open book or whatever, but he knows what Mike looks like when he’s trying not to give anything away.

“I don’t fucking know,” Mike says, finally, sounding like a streak of losses on the road and the exhaustion that sets in when you just want to go home. “Maybe.”

There’s silence, for a moment, and Jeff finally looks up, finds Mike staring at him, still unreadable.

“I would,” Jeff says. “I’d try again with you.”

Mike makes a non-committal noise, but he moves a little closer so their arms are just touching, and it’s a dumb thing to get worked up about but Jeff feels warm all over from the contact.

 

 

 

It's a stupid argument because Jeff is a dumbass who should know better, but he still manages to stick his foot in it the next night after dinner when he asks Mike if he's thought about moving back to LA.  

"Why?" Mike asks, tone on edge. 

"Because I'm here?"

“I don’t owe you anything,” Mike says. “You’re not my soul mate anymore.”

It's a shitty answer to a shitty question, and he shouldn't be surprised that it hurts more than he’d thought. 

 “Does that matter?” he asks, feeling gutted.

“I don’t know,” Mike says, so quietly he’d miss it if he wasn’t so focused on him. He’s staring at his feet and picking at the label on his beer, and god, Jeff would fight the whole fucking world for him. “I can leave.”

“No,” Jeff says, too fast and too emphatically, and Mike finally looks up at him.

He swallows and anything he’s going to say is going to be wrong, but.

“Please, stay,” he says, finally, and now he’s the one who can’t meet Mike’s gaze because he can’t bear to know. It should be such an easy stupid thing to ask, but it’s not like they could ever do anything the easy way.

Mike laughs, suddenly and a little brokenly.

“I was done, you know,” he says. “I lost hockey and I lost you and it was shit but it was done, and I was dealing with it, and then you fucking called me.”

Jeff looks up then to find Mike staring at him, a bitter twist to his mouth.

“Do you even remember that fucking phone call? I was dealing with it, and then you called and said that you missed me and you loved me and you didn’t care if I wasn’t your soul mate, and what the hell was I supposed to do with that?” He bites off the end of his sentence like he’s angry, and he looks like he’s two seconds from dropping gloves and Jeff isn’t sure if he’s going to get kissed or punched.

He clears his voice. “You could stay,” he says. “I don’t, I don’t remember calling, but it's true.” He closes his eyes because he’s not sure he can speak otherwise.

“I don’t care if you’re not my soul mate any more, I don’t care if the universe or God or fucking, like, destiny or some shit says we’re not meant for each other.” His hands are shaking, and he presses them against his knees. “You’re it for me, always been.”

Mike makes a noise and then he’s in Jeff’s space, crowding him against the couch. Jeff opens his eyes and Mike’s looking at him like he doesn’t quite believe him but he wants to, so badly.

“Mike,” he says, as carefully as he can for how fragile the moment feels. “You’re fucking it for me, bud.”

He fists his hand in the front of Mike’s t-shirt and pulls him in, pressing his mouth against Mike’s, and it takes him a second to get with the program but then he’s kissing back desperately.

They pull apart eventually, even though Mike won’t let go of him.

“We’ve got,” Mike starts, and then stops. He takes a deep breath and lets it shudder out. “It’s not going to be simple.”

“Yeah,” Jeff says. “We’ve made it this far, though. Fuck everything else.”

“Yeah,” Mike says, smiling a little. “Alright.”

It’s fucking stupid and it doesn’t fix anything, but Mike kisses him on a Thursday and he’s got all the luck he needs.

 


End file.
